


The Music of the Spheres

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is nearly the end. Naturally, there are regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Music of the Spheres

**Author's Note:**

> Three things:
> 
> \- I have not written HP fic in a very long time. This is my first completed story in about three or four years. This is also entirely unbeta'd. Thereby, I am incredibly rusty, and it shows. I apologize. Just as well, the title is borrowed from Edgar Allen Poe's "The Conqueror Worm."
> 
> \- I have a lot of headcanons regarding the Lestrange brothers, and about the general Slytherin/Death Eater crowd in general. I'm sort of playing with that here. Currently, Aidan Turner and Robert Sheehan are my Rodolphus and Rabastan -- at least, their younger versions. This is set towards the end of DH so...I guess just imagine aged-up versions of them? Uh.
> 
> \- This whole story is very silly and it was more of a personal exercise than anything. I also haven't written in second person in a long time and was itching to get it out. Hopefully it came through successfully.
> 
> \- I lied, there is a fourth thing: Happy reading!

He's always writing letters, and you don't know who to, but you never see him send them so you think they're to Mother. You never ask, he never says a word. His hair is dark, wild with unkempt curls, worse than your own. You have plenty of gray in your strands and don't bother to hide them, because you are a tiger in the dark, and it's only appropriate that your prey spot your silvery stripes before you pounce to devour them whole. 

You twirl your wand between your fingers, the wood worn down some by the endless brush of fingerpads against stained oak. You're paranoid about prints but refuse to wear gloves, because she saw you with them on one day and spat "coward" in your unshaven face. She never speaks to you anymore, save for insults and ramblings. She reminds you of Mother now, the way she mutters endlessly to herself at the dinner table, only she is not like Mother because her hair trails in her soup and she bares her teeth to the floors. She was once like Mother, poised and haughty and carefully deliberate with her words. When Mother died, her last spoke of sorrow and regret. That letter's long gone, curled up somewhere with the rest of your dusty keepsakes, all back at your grandmother's estate in County Wicklow. _I'll go back someday_ , you long ago vowed. You'll go back, and you'll take him, and you'll be away from everything.

He's still writing, ink spotting his sleeve and fingers, and he chews on the quill in that way he knows drives you mad with irritation. You long to wrench it out of his hand and scream at him, scream until he stops writing letters to your dead mother. You know it's merely his way of coping with his sagging shoulders and baggy eyes; his yellowed teeth and constant stomach pains. He ignores them so he can keep serving Him, and all you want is for Him to get smashed out like a cheap cigarette so Rabastan can remember himself.

"Rab." You are treading old territory; the art of asking questions that ought not be asked. You learned early with _her_ , the time you asked about the blood-stained underwear stuffed in the bin and wondered aloud if everything was alright. She took one look at you and raised her hand as if you smack your skin clean off your face, but instead she snatched the garment from your hands and hissed for you to _mind your own goddamn fucking business_. That winter, you learned the word "miscarriage" and drank every time you thought of it.

"Rab," but he isn't listening. You wait, patiently, like you always have whenever it came to him. He pauses, then scritches a last line down on the paper before capping the ink bottle and pushing it all aside, turning in his chair to face you. Rabastan is gaunt and perpetually tired, his hair falling in his face, hiding the low light of his eyes, just dimmed oceans now. He smiles and it looks like he's pushing his muscles with everything he has left in him, and it makes you shake with anger and fear. You steady your hand on the armchair and look from the empty fireplace to him.

"Who are you always writing to?"

He doesn't answer right away, just as you expected. His bare feet drag on the carpet. He's wearing an untied bathrobe and dark pajamas, silk and expensive yet worth nothing anymore. You bought them for him in a little secondhand store, run by a wrinkled blind witch who only spoke French. Thanks to Father, you knew enough to ask her where the clothes were kept. It must have sounded funny to her ears, French words painted with an Irish accent, but she understood you well enough and her responses, in turn, were brushstrokes of pity against his stricken, hushed tones. You walked out of that shop feeling emptier than ever before, bitterly thinking of how Bellatrix has horded all of the savings in Gringotts, leaving little pocket change between yourselves. _Money is of no importance in the presence of total devotion_ , she always says. You spat on the ground and avoided all eyes until you got home and saw him on the couch, reading a Muggle novel and draped in blankets. You would always chide him for the Muggle interests he had — books, music, even art. 

_Oh Rod_ , he'd usually sigh, _I just can't ignore the arts for anything in the world._

Rabastan looks at you now as he did then. His smile is reminiscent of the worst memories of your life, post-Azkaban, when everything changed for better or for worse. You learned he was sick a year after he was diagnosed and could no longer hide it from you. You wanted to beat him until he died, out of anger from yourself and a desire to keep him from suffering. Instead, you held him like a child, and nothing more was said. He only ever smiled when he was sad, because crying, he said, tore up his insides worse than ever; more awful than laughing, but he never did that anymore either.

"Just to Mam," he says, cementing your assumptions. "I know it's pathetic," he goes on, "but it keeps me from punching these walls." 

Rabastan's chuckle could not be more humorless. You look around the room. It's plush and comfortable, if not a little cold. No matter how hard you try, you cannot repair that tiny crack in the window. You think this old childhood home has turned against you both, in retaliation for having abandoned it as long as you did. You want to lean into the floor and murmur apologies, say you're sorry for ever falling prey to the promise of glory and power, a promise fallen from the lips of your once-beloved — never again. She is Medusa, she is Rabastan's treasured Madeline Usher. There is blood on her nails and she has died and died and died, from the loss of her innocence to the loss of her baby to the loss of her beloved Dark Lord. She has risen a breathing, vengeful corpse. Bellatrix is mad with unsteady rage and driven by her need to conquer, her passion for blood, and her love for a hopeless god in a withering old snake's body. 

"It's not pathetic," you say, and you know he thinks you're lying. You look down at your knees and close your eyes, pretending the world has stopped for just a moment. You hear him chuckle and you look back up, his eyes still hidden by curled dark.

"It's okay, Rodolphus," he says gently. "I know you're tired of me."

"No," you say before you know it, going over to him, hand outstretched and mouth gone dry. "No," you say again, grasping his shoulder hard enough to leave a deep bruise. "I'm never — I'm not —"

"Don't," Rabastan insists. "I'm not even called on by the Dark Lord anymore. He thinks I can't fight — one spell and I'll crumble like a centuries-old tower." He coughs and the sound of it stings your heart. "He's probably right."

"He isn't right," you hiss vehemently. "He's not right. Not anymore."

"Oh," Rabastan replied, "was he ever?"

It is a question you will never have the answer for. Rabastan chuckles again and strokes your face, thin fingers against bristled skin. "I don't think I'd like to know," he says, and your heart is still stinging, shattering by the minute, his touch exacerbating each sliver and shard falling into your gut. He leans forward and your breath mingles with his. He smells of natural mint and chamomile, reminding you of everything as it used to be. Bellatrix on your wedding day, curls and taffeta and exuberant warmth. You fell in love with her in your sixth year, when she challenged you to a duel and was crowned winner once your _Expelliarmus_ backfired. She flung you mercilessly into the lake and flashed a brilliant smile, eyes alight with victory and something else. 

You remember it, and it weighs further on you. Rabastan must feel it, as he grips your shoulders and presses his forehead to yours, still looking straight into your eyes, troubled and dark, as if he's silently fighting his way into your very soul. 

"It's almost the end," Rabastan whispers. "Of everything we thought we knew, of...everything, now." He glances to the window. "You attack Hogwarts with the rest of them tomorrow, and I'll just be here, dying nice and slow."

"Don't," you choke out. "Don't you fucking dare it."

"I'm not daring anything," Rabastan retorts, shoulders stiffening. "I'm telling you like it is." He relaxes again, sighing deeply enough for the both of you.

"All legacies end," you resign to saying, the words feeling like poison as they leave your mouth. Rabastan only nods.

"What are you afraid of, brother?"

You've already met his eyes but you need to refocus your vision, stare at every fine line and curve of your little brother's thin face. He's hunched over in his chair, blanket flung over the back. He was always just a little bit taller than you, but he seems smaller than ever now. You're so close, yet you could not be further apart. He is clinging to the crumbling ledge of an invisible chasm, and it mostly seems that it's only for your sake.

"It's alright," he says, "I know you miss her." He thins his mouth, and you remember his growing disapproval long after the wedding — after you all started getting in too deep, and she was the only one fully willing to give herself to the endless pit.

"She's...somewhere else," you say.

Rabastan nods. "She's always been."

And that's when you do it, the thing you've been thinking of but couldn't bring yourself to commit. _He will surely kill me_ , you think, _he will surely kill me and be done with it_. But in a matter of seconds your lips are on his and his body is the only body that matters; his weakened spirit, everything. Rabastan is a dying man and you intend to push life into his lungs with your mouth, unhinged and shaking. His hands are on your chest but he's not pushing you away. Your mouth closes and roams along his jawline, leaving his moans to the empty air.

"What about —?"

You kiss him to drown out her name, grabbing his face and bringing him close. He feels leagues above you, as though he's being drawn up and away by the fates themselves. You claw at his shoulders and bring him back to earth, back to you. You're standing and he's touching you, still stroking and clinging at your chest. Your kisses dissolve into silent words mouthed along his skin. You talk to keep the cries at bay, even though Rabastan is already crying. His tears fall into your mouth and you hate absolutely everything about this fucking world.

"But what about her," Rabastan says, voice cracking against your ear.

"I lost her a long time ago," you mutter, pressing one last kiss to his mouth. "And now I'm losing you too."

Rabastan only smiles, and your insides feel rotted and sore. You would crumple instantly, were it not for the rigid skeleton holding the rest of you up. He leaves your side and uses his wand to draw the curtains closed. He sets it back down on the desk and eyes the couch. You catch his eye and he grimaces.

"I want to have a lie-down," he says, "but I don't want to miss you when you go."

You swallow. "You won't," you say, "I won't go without saying goodbye. It's not until tomorrow. I'll wake you up, maybe hours before I even have to leave. We'll talk, and I'll kiss you again, I'll kiss you raw and stupid."

A deeper smile tugs at his mouth and you know he's quelling the laughter. You want to beg him to turn his wand on you and incinerate you where you stand, and at least you'll have died before him like a proper older brother should. Instead, you take his hand, leading him to the dark velvet cushions. You help him sit and you kneel beside him on the floor, stroking his fingers and thumb. Rabastan covers your hand with his other and kisses your half-open mouth. His breath smells like the buttered toast and tea he had this morning.

"What if you die?"

You only think to stare before answering. "Then I'll die," you say, "and you can come find me for a fucking change."

Rabastan smiles wider now. "Remember grand-père's house, in Bar-le-Duc?" he says. "It took you ages to look for me. I was always behind the fountain, you know."

"In the front gardens?"

He shakes his head. "The back."

"Oh, fuck," you say, a laugh and a sob escaping at once. Rabastan kisses you again. "It was easier finding you in grandmother's house."

"Yes." He sighs into your mouth. "Yes, it was." His smile fades. "I miss it there."

You sit near him, and he ceases talking. Silence befalls the entire room. The sky doesn't even have the decency to rain. Silently, you curse heaven, then God, then the devils and demons around and below. Rabastan rests his head on the armrest, looking somewhere far away, blinking sleepily. You reach out and smooth down his hair, over and over, and he says nothing at all.

"What was it?" he suddenly asks, quiet and strained. "What was it we were looking for?"

You smooth his hair one last time and let your hand fall back to your lap. You remember Bellatrix; her tantalizing, toothy grin. _He's so powerful,_ she had said. _You said it yourself, Rodolphus. You feel lost, unimportant. He'll give you your importance back. He'll lead you down the right road. You'll find yourself all over again._

_And Rabastan?_

_He can let off some of those curses he's been bragging about using at expert level._ You both had a good laugh at that, and made brilliant love right after. You had your own little cottage in the country, and she would visit on weekends. Soon you were married, and living in a manor left to you by your gutless French father who loved as much as he drank. He died in the backstreets of Knockturn Alley, killed by an unseen Auror, mistaken for one of His followers after engaging in a slurred rant about the importance of blood purity to no one in particular. Your mother, still stewing in her grief ten years after the fact, vehemently disapproved of your choice, and threatened to cut you off once and for all if you ever dragged Rabastan with you.

Her words were as empty and irrelevant as your father's liquor bottles. All you saw was bittersweet, beautiful irony. You were everything people only thought your father was. You were bigger, brighter, and more powerful. You missed your father's scent and attacked Muggle villages with your beautiful wife and striking brother in lieu of tears. Rabastan saw the rage and grief in you but said nothing at all, until the night He disappeared ( _died, he fucking_ died _but he wouldn't_ stay dead) and Bellatrix went insane, nearly burning up the house and taking you down with it. You fled to Rabastan's and he watched you pace and rant and smoke thirty-two cigarettes, one right after the other, until dawn had broken.

_You're weak and afraid_ , he'd spat unceremoniously, stopping you dead in your tracks. _She is in love with Him, and you only miss everything we had as children. Things I don't even remember. You really never knew how to let shit go, Rodolphus._

You didn't speak to him for three weeks, until she'd come up with the plan for the Longbottoms and you knocked on his door, insisting he join in. He craved bloodlust too; he was too proud to admit it, and you both knew it. The look in Alice Longbottom's eyes as the last sane light went out of her thrilled you all in one shining moment, for so many reasons. You both longed to see someone else succumb, to have no choice and lose hope in all things, just like you — like him — like her, in all her darkened glory.

"Things we had already lost," you finally answer. "Things we would never get back, no matter how hard we tried."

Rabastan only hums tonelessly. Finally, the sky opens, and rainfall comes in thick, winding sheets. It batters the house and sneaks in as drips through that blasted window crack, the only window without any curtain.

"That the play is the tragedy, 'Man'," he whispers against your hand, "and its hero, the Conqueror Worm."

As Rabastan succumbs to sleep, you remain rooted to the spot, your legs having long gone numb. Whether he should die tonight, or tomorrow, or next year, you will bury your brother with his beloved books and paintings, his most cherished, favorite poems. You will inscribe Muggle prose on his headstone and threaten to kill anyone on the spot, should they challenge you. You will remind everyone of his love for Poe and Dickinson and Yeats. You will come back here, get pissed, and play "Ghost of Yesterday" on that strange Muggle contraption that spins round black discs and makes music come out of a long golden trumpet. He showed you once how to use it and you are too proud to admit you have committed his instructions, precisely, to memory.

Tomorrow is the last day of everybody else's life, and you can only smile at the very thought. You are just like your wife, dead and walking. 

_After Rabastan is gone, there is nothing left to lose_. 

You hold his hand tightly and close your eyes, willing the God you despise to take you both in the torrential, deafening night.


End file.
